The Essay
by estrafalaria103
Summary: Sam's winning an award: so why isn't he excited? John certainly is. A shot into the lives of the Winchesters, in high school. A turning point for John. Just a silly little drabble, done while I was bored.


**AN: Just a quick little ditty. Because I always wondered how the boys grew up to be halfway normal. Sam considers all the parents he's had in his life.**

Dean had never seen his father so excited. Sure, sometimes he got pumped after they finished a successful hunt, and he was always happy when he'd managed to get some money together, and they could eat something other than sandwiches. He'd been stoked when they'd found that rundown abandoned old house outside Wichita, and been able to stay in a normal place with a kitchen for seven months. But never, ever, in all of Dean's life, had he been _this_ excited.

The car horn honked again. Dean turned, one hand on the motel doorknob. "Sam, come _on_," he said in exasperation. "Dad's ready to go."

"I'm not going." Sam crossed his arms across his chest, stuck out his lower lip. "It's my Awards Night. You can't make me go."

Dean glanced outside. The Impala's lights flashed once, twice. The horn honked again. Through the dark glass, Dean could just make out his father's jittery form, bouncing up and down.

When Sam had first brought the invitation home from school, he'd been proud of it. He'd shown it to Dean first, then to their father. And John Winchester had broken into a huge smile, whipped his youngest son up into a hug, and pranced around the room.

"My baby boy, making honors!" he'd crowed. Dean had been proud, too. They'd gone to IHOP for dinner.

But at some point between then and now, Sam had become surly, complaining. And now that it was the big night, he was refusing to go out into the car. Dad, somehow, had completely missed the change.

"Stop acting like a girl, suck it up, and get in the car," Dean ordered. "Dad's gonna be pissed if we don't get out there soon."

"It's not dad's Awards Night, it's mine," Sam said again, still petulantly. "And I don't want to go."

The horn honked again. Dean rolled his eyes. They _so_ didn't have time for this. Besides, ever since turning thirteen, Sam had become downright annoying. Whining about everything, locking himself in the bathroom because, he said, it was the only place that was ever quiet. Which was a lie. Mostly.

Dean walked over, grabbed his baby brother by one ear and hauled him to his feet. "Do you _want_ to have to do more push-ups?" he asked. "C'mon. Dad is proud of you. That happens once in a blue moon. Suck it up."

"Yeah, well. . ." Sam swatted at the hand still pinching his ear, shifted beneath his heavy jacket. "He won't be proud for long. . ." he muttered under his breath. Ear still red, he marched out of the motel, and slouched his way into the back seat. Dean carefully relaid the salt lines, locked the door, and then joined his family.

"Sammy," John said, his lips twitching as he fought back a smile. "Have I told you how proud I am?"

"It's Sam," the little twerp mouthed back. Dean glanced over his shoulder. The moody teen was still just staring out the window. Dean groaned. It was going to be a long night.

It was clear, when they rolled in to the high school parking lot, that they were among the last to arrive. Frustrated at not being able to find a parking spot, John just pulled up over a curb and parked on the mowed grass alongside. Sam bitched, of course. Dean was impressed. Their dad was _really_ excited. Normally he wouldn't do anything that could damage the undercarriage of the Impala.

They marched into the school, wandered around for a little before Sam finally, grumpily, directed them to the auditorium.

"You couldn't have told me that?" an exasperated John asked. Dean shrugged. He'd never been to the auditorium. He hadn't even known the school _had_ one. Then again, he'd finally found his history class for the first time Thursday. He'd been absent for three weeks.

They found a seat near the back. Dean looked around the room. He didn't see a single one of the kids in his classes. Figured. It was probably only the AP and Honors kids there. Not many who took two gym classes and two shop classes. He thought he recognized a girl from history. She was kinda cute.

The principal took the stage, started talking, and Dean immediately clued out. Seriously. The minute the lady started he just couldn't focus. He glanced around the room again. A couple of kids a row down had turned around in their seats and were waving frantically at Sammy. A man and woman, seated on either side of them, shushed them and redirected their attention toward the front. Not for the first time, Dean wondered what it would have been like to grow up with a mom.

"We're going to start the night with the English Department awards," the principal said. Dean only heard her because Sam simultaneously sunk down lower in his seat, twitching nervously. "We have only selected one student from each grade to receive this award," she continued. "And, as always, we will be reading an outstanding essay from each awardee. Starting with ninth grade, could Mr. Samuel Winchester please come to the stage?"

Sam looked like he was about to die. Dean tried not to giggle. Imagine that. Baby brother, who had shot a ghost at ten and helped with a wendigo at twelve, had stagefright. The grin on his face blossomed a little more. Oh, he was going to have fun with this one.

Sam took a deep breath before standing, muttered "Dad is going to kill me." That was weird. John was, if anything, even prouder than he'd been in the car. He was standing, bright white teeth cutting through black beard, clapping harder than anyone else in the auditorium. Dean stood up, too, but now he had a prickly little feeling between his shoulderblades. Sam looked seriously freaked out.

* * * * *

This was the worst thing _ever_. Ever. One step in front of the other. If Sam thought he could get away with it, he would have run out the back door. Dean just thought it was stagefright, he could tell by the way his brother's body was shaking, trying to hold back laughter. Fine. Stagefright he could deal with. It was the disappointment he knew he was going to see in his father's eyes that was killing him.

When he'd first been invited, he'd been excited. Dean had _never_ gotten an academic award. Normally Dad just gushed over Dean, what a great hunter he was becoming, how he was following in his footsteps, blah blah blah. But here was _his_ chance.

Then Ms. Morris had told him that they were going to read his essay. _The_ essay. The one he'd worked on for two weeks straight, having to jerk it away from his nosy big brother every other minute. The stupid essay that he'd thought no one would read except Ms. Morris, and she was used to his weird essays, anyway. Only now he was going to have to read it.

He'd thought about reading something else, a decoy essay. But the minute they'd walked into the room and he'd seen his English teacher sitting on the stage, he'd realized he didn't have a shot. He liked Ms. Morris, mostly, but she could be a pain. She'd probably just stand up and read his essay himself.

The principal handed him a small plaque, and then moved aside. Sam stood at the podium. The lights in the auditorium were dark, so he really couldn't see anyone's face. He figured that was to help people from getting too nervous. But he didn't get nervous talking in front of people. Not usually.

Still, even in the darkness, he scanned the crowd, looking for his dad and brother. Way in the back, there they were. His dad was just a dark shadow. A dark, scary shadow. But Dean was bopping around, like usual, not able to sit still. Sam sighed again. Well, here went nothing.

* * * * *

What is a parent, anyway? Before writing an essay about them, I knew I had to figure out what one was. I wasn't brought up like most kids, in a nice little house with a mom, a dad, 1.5 brothers and a dog. I moved around the country a lot. I lived in the backseat of a '67 Impala, and I grew up in motel rooms and changing bedrooms. I grew up with my dad and my brother, with my uncle and a priest, a psychic, a nanny, a hunter, a bookie. But which one was my parent?

Most people have it easy. Their parent was the one who gave birth to them. Everyone has a mom, right? But my mom died when I was just a baby. How can I write an essay about a woman I never met?

Most people have it easy. Their parent was the one who held them when they were born, who cut the cord. But my dad's been on the road his whole life. I can't remember ever seeing him for seven nights straight. What kind of a parent takes his kids on a whirlwind trip of the U.S., and can't even be counted on to sit down to dinner?

Some people are raised by aunts or uncles, who stand in for absent parents. I had Uncle Bobby. But he lives in a junkyard, in the middle of South Dakota. He's always there when we need him. But he's never there when we don't. Shouldn't a parent be there all the time?

Maybe a parent is the person who teaches you to know the difference between right and wrong. Then my parent was Pastor Jim. But he's a pastor, so it's kind of his job, anyway. Can parenting be a job?

Then I thought, maybe a parent is the person who teaches you to read, and to think, who teaches you to tie your shoes and zip up your jacket. Then my parent was Ms. Walters, my kindergarten teacher. But we left Missouri after that year, and I never saw her again.

Maybe a parent is the person who makes sure that you eat right, that there's a shelter over your head. Then my parents was Ms. Kensington, our baby-sitter from when I was eight until ten. Whenever Dad would disappear on one of his trips, we'd stay with her and her husband and her baby. She was always nice. She taught my brother and me how to cook. But then we moved again, and I haven't seen her since.

Which leaves me with my dad, again. I know that my dad loves me and my brother. Every day he tells us how much he loves us. Every day he goes to work to try and make the world a better place. When I was six, my brother told me that our dad was a superhero. He still believes that. I'm not sure that I do anymore.

Because all of the really good superheroes have alteregos, that they're good at. Nobody ever thinks that Bruce Wayne is Batman, because he has a job, and he goes on dates, and he has a life. Nobody thinks that Clark Kent is Superman because he dates Lois and writes newspaper articles. Spiderman hangs out with his aunt and his girlfriend, and his friends. My dad doesn't have an alterego. He has to be a superhero all the time. That doesn't leave much time to be a parent.

So then I thought that I would write my paper about that old African saying: that it takes a village to raise a child. Except that in my case, it took a lot of different villages, not just one.

But last night, as I was lying on bed, my brother turned on the tv. He had it turned to that stupid lifeguard show, that's all about women running around in red swimsuits. I asked him to turn it off, and he told me to shove it, because that's what big brothers do. But then he did turn it off, and he went into the kitchen, and he came back with a sandwich. He told me to finish my essay, and he would go for a walk or something. Then he threw a pillow at me and he left.

That's what a parent is, I realized. A person who is always there, who always supports and loves you. Somebody that will still love you, even when you yell at them and tell them that you hate them. Somebody who will sacrifice for you, who would die for you. A parent is somebody who doesn't teach you just by making you sit down and go "bunny goes down into a rabbithole." A parent is the person who teaches you by letting you stand at their side while they cook spaghettios, even if you keep sticking your thumb into the sauce. A parent is the person who helps you with your math homework, even though they hate math. A parent is the person who looks under the bed and in the closet when you're afraid of monsters. A parent is the person who gives you a hug and a bandaid when you skin your knee.

My brother, Dean, was my best parent, when I was growing up, even though he's only four years older than me. He taught me dedication, and patience, and how to laugh when all you really want to do is cry. He taught me to stand up for himself, and to be brave and strong. He taught me that there are really bad things out there in the world, but that there's good things, too.

I didn't have a mom, growing up, and most of the time I didn't have a dad, either. I had a lot of well-intentioned people, who wanted to help. But most importantly I had my big brother.

* * * * *

It was obvious that nobody knew what to do after the thirteen year old finished reading his paper. John certainly didn't know. It was. . .it was something, alright. He felt hurt, betrayed, and incredibly, incredibly proud.

The pretty teacher standing on the stage was the first one to respond. She started clapping, and it reminded everyone else to clap, too. John stood up again. He could feel moisture in his eyes. He kept his gaze locked on his son as he smiled weakly, pale under stagelights, and walked down, back to their seats.

"Can we go home, now?" he asked dully. John cleared his throat.

"Don't you want to stay?" he asked. He glance down at the program. "It says that you won three more awards."

"I just want to go home," Sam said. John nodded. Okay. In that moment, he would have given his son anything.

They trudged out together, three pairs of dragging feet, not the triumphant march coming in. John glanced down at Sam, but couldn't find his face beneath too-long bangs. The kid needed a haircut, he realized with a pang. Why hadn't he noticed that?

They reached the Impala, climbed in. John didn't know where to go. He placed his hands loosely on the steering wheel.

"Sammy," he said, cleared his throat, because he'd barely gotten the word out, and tried again. "Sammy. . ."

"I know," Sam sighed. He leaned his head against the window. "I'm in trouble. We might have CPS stopping by, we'll have to move again. I know, Dad, I'm sorry."

John shook his head. Damn tears were popping up again. He glanced back at Sam again, his eyes skimming over Dean, strangely silent. "No," John said firmly. "You have nothing to be sorry about. You told the truth. Besides, CPS has nothing on us this time. Neither of you been hurt on a hunt, and we've been here two months. Solid."

Sam sighed. "Can we just go home?"

So John turned on the car, pulled out of the parking lot, started driving toward the motel. Paused. Turned left, inside of right, onto the expressway. Sam didn't seem to notice, but Dean did, sitting up, and speaking for the first time since the ceremony.

"Dad, where are we going?"

"Your brother wants to go home," John said gruffly. "That's where we're headed.

* * * * *

Sam stared at the house. It looked so. . .normal. There was a garage, and a lawn to mow, and a little porch wrapping around the front. Wood. Simple. Solid. Permanent.

"This is where I was born?" he asked. No smartass response from Dean, saying that he'd been born in a hospital. His father stood behind him, put one hand on his shoulder.

"Yes," John said. "This is where Mary and I thought you would grow up. There were three bedrooms, two bathrooms. . .a big lawn in the back. We thought, maybe, when you boys were older, we'd get a dog."

His dad's voice sounded funny. Sam turned, glanced over his shoulder. Tears were falling freely from his father's eyes. Sam didn't want to see that, so he turned to his brother, instead. Dean was just standing there, stoically staring at the house. A little muscle jumped in his cheek, but he wasn't crying. That comforted Sam, a little.

"It's just a house, Dad," Sam said finally. A squeeze on his shoulder.

"We can have it again," John said finally. Sam and Dean turned in unison.

"Dad, no," Dean said, low. A tear finally did escape his eye. Sam just stared.

"I'll give it up," John said. "Hunting. I'll find us a house, give us a job in the garage. I know it's too late, but. . .I never realized what it's done to you boys."

Sam stared at them. His father, broken like he'd never seen him. He wanted it. He wanted it so bad, not to get hurt running from ghosts, not to have to stitch up his father's and brothers arms and legs. He wanted to never see the inside of an ER again, to never have to research ghouls and demons.

He wanted to go to one high school for four years.

Wanted to graduate.

To have a girlfriend.

Get a job.

Go to college.

He wanted a dad who went to his baseball games, and his school plays, and looked at all of his grades, not just when he was getting a special award. He wanted

But then he saw Dean's face again, and thought about his essay. His dad was a superhero, and all superheroes had to make sacrifices. He pulled his hand into a tight little fist.

His dad was a superhero. His brother was a hero. And he just wanted to be normal.

"It's okay, Dad," Sam said. He reached out, grabbed his dad by the hand. "It's not so bad, really. I just wanted a good grade on my essay. That means making some things up."

John didn't look sure, and his eyes were still wet. Dean moved up beside them. They formed a triangle. Sam remembered his geometry. Three sides are stronger than four.

"Yeah, Dad," Dean said. "You know that essay had to be bullshit the minute he said that I taught him patience."

John's mouth quirked a little.

"Yeah," Sam said. "And can you imagine Dean giving me a hug? He'd just throw a bandaid at me and tell me to man up."

"And everyone knows that you've been home for more than seven nights in a row," Dean said. "When you had that broken leg you were home for four months straight!"

And that was enough. John laughed, turned back toward the Impala, hopped in the front seat. Dean followed after, his hands jammed deep in his pockets. But Sam reached out, grabbed Dean's shirt.

"I didn't lie in my essay," he said lowly.

"I know," Dean said, and whacked his little brother upside the head. "But Dad had to hear that."

"You don't always have to protect him," Sam said. "Or me."

Dean grew serious for half a second. "Yeah, I do," he said. "Besides, you were both crying over a house. Seriously."

Sam laughed. "Shut up," he said.

John stucked his head out the front of the car. "Boys! Hurry up! It's two hours back to the motel!"

"Yeah, hurry up, bitch," Dean said.

"Jerk."


End file.
